Baby Fever Secrets: A Billionaire Romance

by Nicole Snow

  What I don't know is, why the hell can't I stop blushing every minute he's around? Why am I wet every time his hand slips into mine?

  A man like him wasn't supposed to catch my eye. He definitely wasn't supposed to get Tay's approval. But she warned me I'd found my 'cherry breaker,' her words, and I'd better not screw it up, as soon as she pulled me into the bathroom after our first encounter.

  “Don't go chicken shit on me, Bekah,” she told me in her usual blunt way. “If we can't get you laid before starting your new job, we're at least gonna do it before daddy dearest makes you marry Monsieur Creep-o.”

  “If it ever comes to that, please put me out of my misery!” I laugh when she uses our code name for Ethan.

  “Bekah...” She narrows her eyes, too well aware when I'm trying to change the subject.

  “Okay, okay, but how do I even know if he likes me?”

  I'll never forget her pose. Hand on her hips, head cocked, her mascara eyebrows up like I just asked if the sky is blue. “Really, Bekah? Have you seen the way he looks at you? I know a boy who's fixed on plucking the cherry off his sundae!”

  As if I could un-see Grant's baby blue eyes. They've been burned into my brain the whole night.

  They're in my head, and then some. I can't stop seeing them.

  Every time he catches my eyes. Every time he stares just a little too long to be friendly. Every time those looks get longer, pinning me down harder, ripping through my clothes and telling me in no uncertain terms that, yes, baby, it's on tonight.

  I'm desperate to turn in my V-card, but I'm no fool. Grant does eye-fucking like some men do music. His look down inside me, massages every muscle until I think I'm numb with want, and promises a release that's bound to make me scream when the tension building between us finally pops.

  Yes, pops!

  I jump halfway out of my seat when I hear the cork fly off behind me. I do a turn, just as a chubby grey-blue cat jumps down from his perch on the fireplace mantle, startled by the sound.

  Grant stands beside me, grinning as he watches me with my hand fluttering over my heart, two glasses and a newly opened wine bottle in hand. “I see you've met Jack,” he says, taking the empty seat on the love sofa next to me.

  “Jesus! I thought he was a statue.”

  “Sorry, babe. Didn't mean to scare you pale. Here, this'll restore the color in no time.” He pushes a crystal glass into my hand and pours the wine. Rich vineyard scents kiss my nose, soothing after the latest shock, which has my cheeks steaming.

  “Try it,” he says, laying his eyes on me while I take a nice, long sip. He fills his own glass as I close my eyes. When I open them again, he's smiling. The beautiful bastard's grin has no business being so warm and likable when it also makes me ache. “To new friends, good wine, and getaways.”

  No disagreements there. We clink glasses. I try to get more comfortable, kicking off my shoes as I curl up on the couch, savoring the heat of his shoulder against my cheek. “How long have you had the kitty?”

  “Going on three years. He showed up a stray looking for a meal and a warm bed, and we hit it off. He's good company, when he'll hang around instead of hunting in the woods. Never was a cat person before. Jack changed my mind.”

  “You must do a lot of that to have all this. Changing minds, I mean. Nobody ever got rich being crap at sales.” Tonight's drinks are making me nosy. This isn't a date, I keep telling myself. Thank God, too, because what little dating I've done never served me well.

  But is it too much to ask what he does before the clothes come off? Do people have normal conversations before hookups? My inner virgin blushes.

  Again, I'm reminded how deep I'm in to uncharted territory. I don't know the rules when it comes to indulging these no-strings flings. I'm not Tay.

  “Very true. I've done well for myself. Took a lot of convincing and closing deals to reap the rewards, but I can't take full credit. I had a leg up from the family trust when I started. Seed money grew tall and plentiful.”

  “Family,” I repeat, sipping my wine, loving the burgundy sweetness. It hides the bitter thoughts that always come when I hear the word. “Where's that?”

  “Chicago, born and raised. Didn't head east until a few years after I finished business school. My dad ran his dad's real estate empire back in the Windy City, and now it's in my brother's hands. Housing and commercial was too slow. I like turbo. Wall Street delivers.”

  “Hang on, I'm good at this. Let me guess...” I put the edge of the glass against my forehead, doing my best impression of a psychic channeler. “All brothers. Two of them. One boxer growing up, or maybe a bulldog. Distant father. Carefree mother who enjoys one too many drinks.”

  I open my eyes, and his face has gone very serious. “My mom's deceased. Plane crash took her when I was young, about eight years old. You nailed the rest. Cold, alcoholic father, two younger brothers, minus the dog I always wished I had. Boxers are great. My old man never let us have animals around the house.”

  Crap. I feel like an idiot for letting the wine make me talk like one. I set my drink down and sit up straight, struggling to meet to his eyes. “Sorry. I didn't mean to get so personal.”

  He smiles, a reassuring crinkle at the corners of his eyes. It's one more subtle reminder there are years between us, and it's gorgeous. “Forget it, oh wise one. Even the best mediums needed practice to get it right. For your next trick, how about you tell me what color the sheets are on my bed upstairs? We'll see if you're accurate before we find out.”

  He sips his wine while I try to form an answer. Thinking about his bed instantly makes me think about having those hands on me again, this time wherever they want to be.

  His hands. His bed. His big, broad shouldered, twenty-first century Viking body. This is really happening, isn't it?

  God. I think I need more wine.

  “Red, maybe?” I try avoiding his eyes, imagining his weight pressing me deep into the tacky, crayon red sheets I've made up.

  His smile is gone when he pulls his glass down. Something hotter and more feral replaces the inviting warmth on his face. “Guess again. Two more tries, Bekah.”

  Two more? And then what?

  Sweet Jesus. I'm not drunk enough for this yet!

  I'm so flustered when I reach for the bottle I don't see the cat brushing up against it. I reach without looking. Meanwhile, chubby Jack snuck over to check out the source of his scare with the cork. He lets out a meowl as his tail catches weirdly around the glass' stem.

  It throws off the balance when I pull my glass away. I try to catch it between two fingers before it slips, spins, and goes crashing down in the middle of my lap.

  “Jack!” Grant bellows, shaking a finger at the panicked cat, who's left in such a hurried retreat he turns up the corner of a Turkish rug.

  Décor and pets are his problems. Mine is the huge splash of red moscato all over my lime green skirt. Shame heats my face. I look up, staring into his bemused face. “At least I guessed the color I'd be by the end of the night right.”

  The tension on his face melts. He bursts out in the deepest, richest chuckle my ears have ever had the pleasure hearing. His laugh goes on too long.

  “What's so damned funny?” I fold my arms, looking him dead in the eye.

  “You think that's as red as I'm letting you get tonight, Bekah? Really?”

  Mission accomplished. New heat rushes into my cheeks, lashing them brighter. I'm hot, angry, and flustered, but I'm also turned on. My eyes go to his chest, rising and falling as he quiets down. It's impossible to avoid thinking it's a lot like it'll look when he's on top of me, thrusting deep and steady, his lungs pumping as hard as the rest of him before my pussy squeezes, and I hear him curse his release.

  “I don't know, Mr. Billionaire,” I say. His wealth doesn't scare me, and neither do his rogue good looks. “How many shades of red exist? I never paid much attention in art class.”

  He reaches over, grabbing my wrist, a move so electric I struggle no
t to gasp. “Plenty. Jack's also given me the perfect excuse to get your clothes off, seeing how the wine must've soaked your panties by now. Knew I kept that boy around for something.”

  Red, red, and redder. I think my face is nearly the color of a fire hydrant when I look away.

  I need my eyes gone. Anywhere except on this gorgeous giant with words like a whip.

  His mischievous cat prances into the room now that the excitement is over, brushing against our legs.

  Softie that I am, I can't resist reaching down and scratching his head, even if he's cost me my dignity. He purrs, pleased with himself for pleasing his master. I wonder if it's always like this with the girls he brings home?

  “Any last minute worries I can wipe before we do this thing?” Grant asks, his hand brushing over mine as we stroke Jack together. The cat sniffs at our hands, showing his enjoyment in soft, brisk purrs.

  “Age? There's a noticeable gap between us.” My eyes search his, wondering what kind of bear I'm poking by stating the obvious. “That's not a problem, I guess, if it's okay with you.”

  “Okay? Bekah, it's hot, and there's an easy solution to make it feel right.” This time, he grabs both my hands, helping me up, while Jack retreats to his place on the fireplace again. He quirks an eyebrow, as if I should already know the answer. “Don't tell me you've never called a man sir before?”

  “Called him what?! Ew.”

  Ew is right. Sir is supposed to be for kinky people into spanking and blindfolds. It's not for a girl having her first time with an older man, who just might be conspiring with the entire universe to get her naked.

  Ew is what my mouth says, but when the word registers in the part of my lizard brain turning my panties into a sopping wet mess, I'm intrigued. Okay, perhaps I'm a little hot for it even, because it seems wrong.

  “Open your mind, my little moscato.” His palm circles my spine, adding just the right pressure, bringing me closer to him. My nipples throb, hungry and titillated when they go flush against his hard chest. “You're young, you're beautiful, and we have the whole night to ourselves. You'll call me sir by the time we're done, and you'll love it.”

  “Oh, I wouldn't go that far.” Lies. Filthy, rotten lies.

  “I would, and I will. I'll lead you wherever I damned well please, moscato.”

  My hands flatten against his chest, giving my breasts some much needed breathing space. If they spend another second pressed up against him, I swear I'll lose it in the middle of his living room.

  “Are we through spilling wine out here and eye-fucking each other blind?” He waits until I give him the tiniest of nods. “Good. Follow me.”

  I obey. Not just my body, but my heart. It strums so hard in my ribcage I'm afraid it'll stop. My footsteps land in his as we move through his enormous house, heading up the spiraling staircase, which goes up several floors. His master suite is at the top, hidden behind a thick double door with intricate flourishes carved into it. Almost like a secret passage. I feel like it's the entrance to Aladdin's cave, rather than a rich man's bedroom.

  When his hand is on the huge iron knob, he stops, staring into my eyes. “You never did use up your guesses on the sheets,” he says.

  “I'll stick with red,” I tell him, even though I'm sure that's wrong.

  It's the last thing I'm able to say as a sane woman, before he opens the door and brings me into his storm.

  His sheets are actually ivory white. I notice them as soon as he's backed me against the wall and ripped down my skirt, cupping my pussy through soaked lace, squeezing like he already owns it.

  Twisted desire curdles my blood, and I still can't pull my eyes off his sheets. They're probably Egyptian cotton with ten thousand stitches, the kind I've slept on a couple times in the fancy jets my father flies out to bring me home from my water work in Latin America.

  It's a stunning, pure choice for a man with nothing pure about him as soon as he unbuttons his shirt. My hands reach in, fingertips dancing on his skin, nervous and delicate. He takes my wrists with a growl, pushes my fingers against him harder, brushing his shirt aside.

  “Touch me, beautiful,” he whispers. “It's yours tonight.”

  My eyes look on the wonder I'm being loaned. My jaw drops when I see what he's hiding.

  Tattoos galore. Dark, rich ink lines his whole chest and races down to his abs, a long axe with the word BASTARD written on its blade. Intricate lines race out around it, lightning and fire. His shoulders are flanked by a skull mounted on wings. A killer angel, fierce as his muscles.

  So, the Viking aesthetic is everywhere. Maybe down to his soul. He could've walked in straight from the middle ages with his demon ink and irresistible beard.

  It's a little ridiculous on the surface, and totally over-the-top. This strong, gentle businessman with his buttoned down shirts, hiding a scary freak underneath. But I can't deny its power to get me wetter than I ever imagined.

  “You're shaking,” he says, pulling me closer by the wrists. His hot breath drifts against my lips, dangerously close to a first kiss.

  “Why bastard? Why the skull? I'm not sleeping with an ex-con, am I?”

  He grins. “Old work name. Haven't dealt with blue collar criminals since I got out of my old man's real estate business. Now, all the assholes I haunt wear suits and ties. Enough with the Q and A, love. Your pussy's begging for my tongue almost as bad as your lips.”

  Our lips connect.

  Correction: they demolish each other.

  His kiss comes hard and crisp and all kinds of sweet. Fire in every tongue flick, pouring into me, lit by the delicious friction of his tongue on mine.

  I'm not a total angel. I've kissed other boys plenty of times, but never with this carnal intent braising every nerve in my body.

  Oh, it's on. Finally. Completely.

  Tay's mission is about to be accomplished. I'll lose my V-card, and possibly win so many orgasms in the hours to come that my legs start trembling just thinking about it.

  Grant's hot breath slurs into a growl. His teeth dig into my bottom lip: rough, possessive, merciless.

  The air leaves my lungs and spills into a moan, filling his mouth. If I was quivering before, then I'm a hot mess now. I can't hide what he's doing to me.

  “You okay, moscato?” he asks, pulling away, bringing his free hand to cup my cheek. “What's wrong?”

  “You,” I whisper, taking a second to swallow the bashful stone in my throat. “You're too good, and I have a confession to make.”

  “Confession?”

  “I have to be honest.” His eyes lock onto mine while I take a deep breath, letting out a sigh before I spill it. “I've never done this before.”

  “You've never...? Oh. Oh, shit.”

  I hope I haven't made a huge mistake. For a second, his fingers stiffen on my skin, warmer and sterner than before. Sweat beads on my brow.

  Have I said too much?

  “I meant to tell you sooner. Tay brought me up here for more than an ordinary get away. She thought I'd find a man to take my worries away, to help me get laid. It's long overdue. I swear, I'm ready. There's a first time for everything...right?” I stop right there, recognizing how pathetic I sound.

  His palm slides against my cheek, tracing my jaw down and then up again, keeping me in suspense. I'm about to grab my skirt and walk the fuck out when he gives me the smirk I'm learning is near impossible to resist. “Always, Bekah. Always a first time for everything. I've never had a virgin call me daddy before, but fuck, I want to.”

  Nice recovery, even if it's crude. Very nice when his lips crash back into mine, angrier than before, kissing me with the same fierce intent his hand makes when it slides between my thighs.

  He brings me a little closer to the huge, angel white bed with every kiss. Its thin curtains hang down like something from an old Victorian film. They caress my back softly when I'm at the edge, one gentle push away from entering a world guaranteed to change me forever.

  “Fuck, Bekah, you taste s
o sweet. So warm. So wet for me. So fucking ready to be owned by your sir. More, moscato. Give me more.”

  If the wine analogies are getting old, my brain doesn't realize it yet. I don't think my extremities could be more ready. They pulse violently every time he touches me. His hands go around my waist, and he brings himself in close, dragging the rock hard length hiding in his trousers against my panties.

  Surprise number two: he's huge.

  Nobody ever said this V-card punching was going to be easy. Still, I'm game, ready to wrap him in the pink, tender parts of me craving every inch. Ready to be his, and yes, maybe to call him that dreaded, stupid, kind of irresistible S-word.

  Goodbye, cardigan. My fingers go to the spaghetti straps of my tank top, and I'm peeling it off, when he grabs both my wrists. “Not so fast. Let me help.”

  His thick, deliciously rough fingers replace mine. They undress me with a master's skill, starting at my top, lifting it over my head. It hits the floor, and his palms roam my breasts, bringing a tender heat to my nipples. My toes can't curl fast enough.

  “God,” I whisper, eyes rolling to the heavens. I barely notice when his hands move behind me again, taking my bra clasp, freeing my breasts from their lacy restraints.

  I recover just in time to see Grant fall to his knees. He backs me into the bed, eases my ass against it for support, and throws one arm around my waist. Then his face moves to my aching nipples, each soft bud calling for his bristle, his heat, his feral tongue.

  I whimper. I can't do anything else every time his stubble grazes my untouched skin. His tongue circles my left nipple, and I count, wondering how long it'll be before numbers stop making sense.

  One.

  Two.

  Sweet Jesus. Three!

  I'm a goner.

  He rolls. He sucks. His licks deepen, pulling my flesh between his teeth. Intense, delirious torture.

  It's the best and worst a man can offer. A tease and a deep, satisfying scratch. It's fire and ice and all the good things in between, written in carnal truth even a virgin can understand.

  Holy hell. I'm on fire.